


like breathing was easy

by smoothniallsmooth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Model AU, Riding, Rimming, Sexual Tension, a little fluff if you squint, irresponsible work behavior do not try at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothniallsmooth/pseuds/smoothniallsmooth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>They want him to walk the show.</em> The <em>show, the one that's broadcasted annually on national television, the one that A-list celebrities are no doubt going to be attending, the one that's sponsored by millions.</em></p><p>  <em>"You think you're ready?" Zayn had asked as he walked him out, eyes shining like they were channeling Harry's own energy. </em><br/> <br/><em>And apparently, Harry is a hell of a cliche, because his smile is easy and his response is simple.</em></p><p>  <em>"Born ready."</em></p><p>Harry is walking the 2014 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, Louis Tomlinson is performing with his band, and also, coincidentally, the man whose curves Harry's fingertips can't seem to forget. They love each other for a night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like breathing was easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontletmedown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontletmedown/gifts).



> so in my head this was supposed be a smutty one shot but i suppose it took a turn for the best (worst?). anyway it was a lot of fun writing for the exchange and i hope its everything its meant to be!
> 
> title from angels by the xx

 

 

 

_To succeed in life, you need two things:_

_Ignorance and confidence._

_-Mark Twain_

\----------- 

_Victoria's Secret Casting Call, NYC_

It's ten in the morning on a Saturday, and Harry is shivering from the bitter cold while his hands simultaneously sweat in his lap, but of one thing he is absolutely certain: he has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

At fifteen he took an irrational interest in the fashion industry, and really, that was his first mistake. At sixteen he'd been working with a shitty agency run out of a basement in Manhattan, struggling to put together a decent portfolio, and at seventeen, he caught his big break. Attending an open call at Elite had been the best decision he made in his life, give or take the unfortunate commitment of hacking off his signature curls and working out four times a week. They said he was "interesting" and "new age", looks-wise, and signed him without a second's hesitation, sending him from H&M catalogues to walking YSL and shooting for Calvin Klein in hardly a year's time. It's all surreal, unrealistic, even, that he got that far, but on top of it all, he managed to become the first male model to ever cover _Vogue_ without a female counterpart before his nineteenth birthday.

And now, even with endless shoots and runway walks for the big guys under his belt, he still sits, jittery and stiff with an abundance of good-luck texts burning a hole in his coat pocket, and waiting to speak to the man himself.

To put it simply, he's competing against hundreds of other male models for one of four spots on Victoria's Secret's new ad campaign featuring a brand new line of male lingerie, the first of its kind. When he'd received the call from his agent the previous morning, he'd all but sprung from his bed, hand clapped over his mouth. The announcement of this casting opportunity had left him feeling fucking brilliant, more giddy than he's felt in ages. Despite working with the likes of Versace and Tom Ford in the past, he's almost positive he's never wanted something more, and that's exactly what has him trembling in his skin.

He knows he's got more than a fair chance, is the thing. He's no veteran, but he's more or less made history with his _Vogue_ title shot and has been in the industry for almost four years of his life. Most of the other baby-faced models milling about are admittedly gorgeous, but inexperienced; he's yet to recognize a single one. However, he's never been one to condescend, to claim his rights to what's not his. Not only that, but his reputation won't cut it. Favorites don't exist in the real world. He has to put everything he has into this audition. He's used to straight-faced, intimidating smoulders when he walks, but now he's got to pour every bit of his confidence and sunny personality into footsteps and facial expressions, lanky limbs and all. He's hopeful, he is, wants this with everything he has, but he's not about to chance his dream gig with false assurance and self-centric mindsets.

"Harry Styles?" calls a woman with a clipboard, wispy tufts of blond hair loose from her bun. She looks frazzled to all hell, as Harry could imagine directing such a large competition could cause one to be, but her eyes are kind as she gestures for him to follow her down the hall.

He stands on shaking legs, tugging insecurely on the hem of his loose jumper. He wonders how much it would cost him to turn around now, last second doubts buzzing aggressively through his mind. A mantra of _I'm not good enough I'm not good enough I'm not good enough_ blares like cymbals in his eardrums, but he knows the smallest amount of negativity is what can lose this for him. He reminds himself of his success, puts on the mask of confidence that's gotten him this far ("you've got to fake it, Harry, until it's real"), and lifts his chin.

Edward fucking Razek awaits.

- 

(He gets it, of course he does. He's not sure if it's the dimpled smile or the charming comments or the extensive stories of his supportive mum or the dorky poses, but he gets it. He now gets to call himself an Angel, gets to hang out with the girls he's idolized for months while prancing around in lacy underwear, and what more could he ask, really?)

-

_Casting Party, NYC_

Harry tends to lose himself in bits and pieces. There's an unofficial celebration for the new VS casting, and the lights are dim and everyone is mingling, laughing. The room is tinted pink, pop music vibrating the walls, and the atmosphere itself is less than exquisite. There's too many sweaty, stumbling bodies crammed into the room, no matter how spacious, but the champagne is expensive and the couches are leather. It's not long before Harry's floating, and though the amount of liquid gold flooding his veins is truly insufficient, he feels a bit too on edge and reckless and electric, like a bird balancing on a wire.

He's laughing with Behati Prinsloo and Adriana fucking Lima and it's so _fun_ , a lack of control and an abundance of sweat and laughter disguised as a business affair, and it lets Harry forget about the close-minded bigots he'll be dealing with when he starts featuring in the campaign. Modeling is something he has to commit his entire mind and body to, and it's fucking hard, but things like this make it worth it. Everyone is gorgeous and he's gorgeous and alcohol is gorgeous and he feels the first piece of himself slide out of place, just the way he likes. Ignorance is a mindstate.

He's halfway through his third (fourth?) vodka cranberry when he meets the epitome of everything blessed. In the toilets, of all places.

"You fancy a drink while you piss? Bit of a contradiction, that is," is the first thing everything blessed says to him, sending Harry's head snapping up so fast he gets whiplash where he's leaned against the marble counter. The man's eyes widen, his heavenly blue eyes, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"Oops, sorry, mate. Didn't mean to scare you," he adds. He's clearly a bit sloshed himself, unbelievable cheekbones dusted with a healthy flush that reads anything but embarrassed. It doesn't make him any less the most gorgeous man Harry has ever seen. He's dressed head to toe in Armani, no doubt, grey speckled turtleneck tucked under a blazer with sharp edges paired with form-fitting slacks and shiny oxfords. More or less, flirting with attractive, vaguely familiar men in the toilets is the peak of what Harry is _not_ supposed to be doing right now, but he finds himself collecting his startled expression into a coy, dimpled smile nonetheless.

"No, hi, um. I just came in here to check my phone, actually. M'supposed to be mingling," he answers, nervously swirling his drink. The man cocks his head, his artfully styled quiff following the movement.

"You are, though, aren't you?" he asks. Harry opens his mouth to, presumably, stutter over a half-assed response, but his delightful approacher is quick to continue. "You model? I think I saw you walking Givenchy last summer. And, you know, in every bloody magazine my sister leaves lying around when I go down to visit."

It's ridiculous, he knows, but Harry is still shocked every time someone recognizes him. Especially when toned, quiffed, fucking _familiar_ men, seriously, where has he seen this guy, recognize him. He finds himself fishmouthing for a response, considers blushing and tucking himself behind the potted plant next to the sink.

"Eh, I dabble," he jokes, then realizes that sounds much too pretentious, and is quick to cover. He steps forward and reaches out a hand. "Yeah, I mean. Harry Styles, nice to meet you."

The man's grasp is firm when he accepts the handshake, delicate fingers draped over Harry's own. It takes both of them half a second too long to let go, and it should be awkward, but when Harry finally lets his arm drop at his side, the man only offers him a wide smile.

"Harry Styles. Would you mind if I bought you a drink?"

-

Misfortune has a name. Misfortune walks and breathes in the form of successful, attractive men with big names and big dicks. He's supposed to be meeting his coworkers, opening doors for himself, or rather, knocking on doors that are already open. Instead he finds himself sharing air with this man who smells expensive and chatted him up in a public bathroom, giggling and brushing fingers and exchanging facts the rest of the world already knows about them. Louis, his name is, and Harry's too drunk to place him but he knows he's seen him before, that he's some type of celebrity.

The thing with living and working in this type of scene is, one tends to lose track of everyone else. An average, working person admires fame and idolizes the famous, and of course Harry's still got people he looks up to, but keeping up with _People_ magazine feels a bit like Facebook stalking your coworkers. It doesn't matter to him much anymore, the Hollywood gossip, and it proves itself now.

Harry fingers his drink straw, pretending to listen intently on the mishap Louis is sharing with him, but really he's just staring at his mouth, wonders what he would do if he kissed him. He's got such thin, pink lips, lips that would look so perfect wrapped around his-

"Can you spread your legs for me nice and wide, sweetheart?" is the sentence that brings Harry barreling back into reality, blinking rapidly.

"What?" he asks, hands freezing where he'd been absentmindedly stirring his drink.

"That's what the photographer said. But like, he had this tone, it was so creepy. I don't know how you do it, I could never model," Louis clarifies. Harry laughs on an exhale, suddenly becoming aware of how fast that had his heart beating, how warm it'd made his cheeks burn.

"They're usually more professional than that, I swear," Harry giggles, downing the rest of his drink in one go.

"You're cute, Curly," Louis comments suddenly, nudging him in the shin with his shoe. Harry's stomach wrings itself tight and a flush argues petulantly with his cheeks. It feels a bit reckless, a bit unprofessional, to be speaking this way, _flirting_ , with potential colleagues. He panics, a bit, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he weighs his options.

Louis' into him; he doesn't doubt it a bit. He considers the reasons why he shouldn't go home with him, and there are a lot, but he can't for the life of him feel the weight pressing his shoulders as heavily as it actually is. He's mingling, he's allowed to mingle. He's drunk and he's an adult, he's allowed to have sex. That's the extent of his mentality at the moment, however selfish, however stupid. The light hits Louis' face, and his grin is soft, eyes genuine, and Harry's hit with a wave of lust that instantly makes his decision for him.

"Louis," he says, partly to address him, partly just to test the name on his tongue. He curls his lips into a dopey smile. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Louis' grin widens, like he's been waiting for the request. He bites it down in a second, the prominence of his fucking sinful cheekbones completely disarming.

"My hotel is two blocks away," he answers. Harry doesn't bother to mention his flat complex is across the street, because a hotel room seems more fun, messing sheets they won't have to clean under a ceiling they won't be able to picture the following day.

They sneak out the back, flickering 'Exit' sign shining a stark red on their backs from the brick wall it hangs on, and it's fucking raining. Just a drizzle, but enough to make Harry squeal when it hits. Louis' laughing as his quiff wilts, and fuck everything if Harry doesn't live and die to a soundtrack like that.

The city is really, really gorgeous at night, even when the streets and buildings are visibly slick with water like running mascara. The street lights are warm and by now the distant car honks and emergency sirens are nothing but white noise. Harry's got a beautiful boy on one wrist and a beautiful watch on the other, and maybe he's a bit drunker than he thought because one night stands have never been his thing but right now he's floating.

"I want you," he whispers once they've reached the lobby of the Hilton where Louis' staying, clothes damp. The elevator light glows, but it takes so _fucking_ long that Harry drags Louis to the stairs across the way, and is only a little irritated when he hears a distant _ding_ the moment he's touched the railing. Louis leads the way, and Harry's so exhausted by the the time they've reached the fourth story that he's hardly noticed when Louis slides a key and pushes open the door to an elaborately decorated room. And it's not like Harry's never seen exquisite, but the way giddiness rises in his chest at the sight of crystal and gold and warm colors is unmistakable. He's soaked and his clothes are hanging awkwardly and sticking to his skin, but it doesn't matter much because Louis hardly waits a second before he's pressing him to the wall and stripping Harry's damp shirt over his head.

"I don't usually do this," Louis mumbles, and Harry had no idea what he could mean by that, but he mutters an agreement anyway, and lets his fingers dance down Louis' arms while they breathe each other's air.

He wants him, he wants his _mouth_ , everywhere. So he kisses him, wet and messy. He tastes like mints and expensive liquor and cigarettes. Harry's never been much of a smoker himself, but he wants to drown in it.

"I'm not going to fuck you," Louis adds as he releases Harry from the wall and swivels around towards the bed. He maneuvers Harry until the backs of his knees hit the mattress (his legs feel like jelly. He's already useless), then pushes him down softly and straddles his chest.

"I'm not," Louis pauses to dip his tongue between Harry's parted lips, arms bracketed next to his head, "fucking you tonight."

Harry thinks maybe he's not even talking to him, more like reminding himself of his own morals, that he can't risk taking home the pretty boys that are possibly, maybe in his work league. But the way he words it sounds a lot like there may be a _next time_ , and Harry nearly comes in his pants. He still whines his disagreement, kicks his legs childishly, but Louis cuts him off with a swift kiss on the jaw. His mouth travels his neck, tasting the salty sweat on his burning skin. He won't fuck him, but Harry could never really resist neck kisses.

Louis lets him suck him off instead, with his head under the covers so the sheets stick to his skin while he tugs himself off in one hand. It's not a total loss.

-

Harry's job is a tidal wave.

He doesn't think much about the night he accidentally fell into Louis' bed. It's partly because he doesn't see him again (which is odd, really, because he sees everyone else he met at that party on the daily), but mostly because he doesn't have _time_ to ponder. It was good, and he has no trouble admitting that to himself, but his mind is completely elsewhere for the following three weeks.

For one, his campaign has him swamped. He spends almost all of his time in meetings, fittings, and interviews, and he cannot count on both hands the amount of times he's already been asked about his confidence level about the gig. It's almost sickening, the amount of interest the press shows in standard gender roles, and the absolute lack they have in the actual _milestone_ that this has reached for said roles.

When he's not being harassed by measuring tape and redundant questions, he's being harassed by Liam, his personal trainer. He's used to the pain of working out, likes it even, but it's been awhile since he was last on a contract like this. He works out every day, ranging from endurance to strength to cardio, and his diet consists of fruit, protein shakes, and the occasional fifty-calorie snack pack or Greek yogurt. He runs on four hours of sleep, five if he's lucky, and six on weekends.

Hence, tidal wave. Modelling really is solely about looking pretty, at all times, no exceptions. A week ago he was basking on a white sand beach drinking great champagne and his only cardio consisted of a one night stand with Louis, and then the sun swept low and the waves whipped him into an ocean of work and hot disaster. He loves this career, he loves this industry. Really.

The actual shooting starts two weeks in, and Harry can't express how light and bubbly it makes him feel to be under those lights again, to be directed and in fucking lingerie for Christ's sake. It's liberating, and he falls into it so easily as always, like a trance. The camera loves him, and his photographers tell him so, though he already knows.

He's on break when it happens, wrapped in a powder blue silk robe and nibbling on the cap of his water bottle while Lou, his styling assistant, swipes at his face with an expensive makeup brush. She's rambling, as she tends to do after a long day of running around touching up the steely faces of jaded supermodels, and Harry finds himself tuning in and out of the one-sided conversation. He tries to listen, he really does, because he's not like the lot of them. He likes to treat the crew like they're as important as the models, because they _are_ , if not more, and normally he's a great listener, but he just can't make the effort today. Even fruit-infused water and disgusting egg-powder protein shakes aren't doing any good. His attention span is truly fried, to say the least.

Until it isn't.

"Oh, Harry, darling, did Sophia speak to you? If I heard right, the casting crew've got some special news for you, mm?" Lou says suddenly, right after finishing the story of how her daughter chucked up her lunch on Kylie Jenner at Christian Dior last week. She says it like Harry is supposed to know what she's on about, but he's clueless.

"What? News, what news?" he asks, ears immediately perking up. Lou's lips curl into an 'oh', and she sweeps a lock of dusty lilac hair behind her ear.

"I thought they'd have told you. They will today, I reckon," Lou assures, running a comb through his quiffed hair before patting him on the cheek. "All done, look gorgeous, as always. You best put on your next set, I think we're resuming soon."

Harry stands, but he hardly has time to turn in the direction of his rack before Edward's assistant is tapping his silk-covered shoulder and requesting him to follow her to the artificial runway room that Harry's become much too familiar with. Everything is white and the fluorescent lights shine too bright and too hot. Just being in the vicinity makes Harry's stomach twist with nerves, and he's a bit embarrassed for the directors to speak to him in this particular ensemble. His hands tremble in the slightest as the assistant pushes open the door and waves him inside.

It's like, he has all this nervous energy just being in the presence of the designers he works for, and he's never sure where to channel it, so mostly he just feels like an idiot. Monica Mitro looks up from a clipboard and offers a wide smile, pointing at a foldable chair that sits across from the long white table they're all sat at, every one of the big guys. Even Zayn Malik, iconic sex symbol and recently recruited co-casting director, stares at him with kind brown eyes, and Harry wants to hide himself and every magazine he's ever covered underneath the chair he's sat in.

"Hi, Harry darling, sorry to pull you from your shoot, but we have tons to talk about," Sophia says. He sheepishly steps forward. If her smile, present on her lips and evident in her tone, is anything to go by, he should suspect no omen.

Harry sweats anyway.

-

 

They want him to walk the show. _The_ show, the one that's broadcasted annually on national television, the one that A-list celebrities are no doubt going to be attending, the one that's sponsored by millions. They'd been watching him, apparently, as well as his fellow male models for the campaign, and concluded that if they really wanted this collection to come in with a bang, and out with million bucks, they needed to limit the number of males to one. With a lot of discussion, they narrowed that Harry would be perfect for the role. He himself is skeptical, because he's a bit lanky and has a small arse, but the castors' eyes held no ounce of doubt when they broke the news.

When it comes down to it, the behind-the-scenes whispers don't amount to all that much. No, when it comes down to it, Harry is about to be thrown into the biggest show of his life, with a lot of experience but minimal preparation. He has a month to shape himself up for this, three weeks until his flight leaves.

"You think you're ready?" Zayn had asked as he walked him out, eyes shining like they were channeling Harry's own energy.

And apparently, Harry is a hell of a cliche, because his smile is easy and his response is simple.

"Born ready."

-

_2014 VS Fashion Show, London_

If the sun rises in the east, then Harry should wonder why the fuck it feels like it's settling in his throat.

He'll be damned if he fucks this up for himself. He feels the energy of pre-show madness all the way down to his toes, the tips of his ears, even in his soft tufts of gently styled curls piled atop his head. He's walked plenty of runways in his day, but never in two-inch heels, and never for such a large and important audience. However, he's never let the harsh artificial lighting and the manic backstage frenzy affect his mindstate, and today will be the same. Even at six that morning, when Niall, his best friend from home whom he'd insisted fly out with him for this, held his hair back while he chucked up all four strawberries he'd eaten half an hour before, he never doubted for a second that he would fucking kill this. He just has a weak stomach, and the thought of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt watching him walk the show of his life was enough to trigger it.

The nerves flutter in his belly almost pleasantly, but he tries not to focus on any of it. Every glance in the mirror leaves him feeling self-assured, and that fact in itself boosts his confidence a bit. The lights catch on his hair and he's just roaming around, really, for lack of something better to do. He's not left helpless for long, though, because a frazzled Monica is soon calling out the fifteen-minute mark, which is his cue to change into his first set. The theme for the first walk this year is Night Changes, so the pieces mimic the colors of the sky from dusk to dawn. His first ensemble is simple black lacy thing, tight and meshy and complete with a dusting of glitter across his shoulders. He'd been presented to his wings the night before, and they're so fucking gorgeous, waiting in their case under his rack.

It's so fucking surreal, that he's here tonight, and he can't fathom what he could have done in another life to deserve something this. He feels both amazing and amazed at the same time, like somehow the glitter clinging to his skin made its way into his chest and is bubbling excitement all the way down to his ribcage.

Actually wearing the wings is decidedly different from looking at them, and as Lou slips them over his shoulders with a wide grin tugging at her lips, Harry feels like he can actually fly. He twirls in front of the mirror, an excited flush high on his cheekbones.

"Two minutes!" someone calls.

He can see the lights dimming under the cracks in the faux runway walls, nameless music playing quietly as the announcer's voice booms through the auditorium. He's fucking trembling, giddy with it. People are scurrying and someone is pushing him in the general direction of the runway entrance, models in skimpy outfits scattered about as they scramble to get into their positions.

An assistant with an expensive mouthpiece is moving up and down the lines of models, breathing out counts as she makes sure everyone is where they're supposed to be. She raises a finger to her headset, listening for a moment before her breath hitches and she's waving at them.

"Sending out the first girl in five, four, three..." music reverberates through the walls and Harry knows this song. His taps his hip lightly to the beat, half out of nerves, as the first girl clad in a piece made to mimic a fiery sunset is sent out into the light. And fuck, it's only six more until Harry's up himself, giving the world a first look at the all-inclusive line he's sporting. His breath hitches and he bites his lip, careful not to worry it raw. He's focusing a lot on the little things, like how this song is really fucking familiar, that _voice_ is really fucking familiar, and then it hits him. His skin erupts in flames on the spot.

It's Louis, _Louis_ is performing tonight, and he fucking knew that. At least, he knew his band was, but he never bothered to put two and two together. He's suddenly itching to get out there, as if he wasn't already, to see him and reminisce in the way his lips felt against his skin. The line inches forward, and before he knows it he's on deck behind Cara Delevingne, giddy and sparkling like a fucking firecracker. The grand arch is high above his head as he's ushered forward and it's his turn; he swears he can hear the static hum of his heartbeat.

"Alright, Harry's a go," the assistant murmurs into his mic, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to signal him to start his walk. The rest is history.

"And now, introducing our first ever male lingerie line, modeled by the wonderful Harry Styles!" the announcer calls. Harry's smile threatens to break from his cheeks and fly away. He's dimpling, sure to make eye contact with both the tracking cameras and the vast audience just like he was told during their rehearsals. He's getting closer to where the catwalk fans out to a sort of stage where Louis' singing, hand pointing at his own chest instinctually and eyes shut tight as he pours himself into his music. The crowd is cheering for him, and he thinks he makes eye contact with Justin fucking Timberlake.

He thinks he does a good fucking job, makes eye contact with Louis enough times to recognize that the face he makes when he sings isn't too far off from the face he makes when he comes. Harry even works up enough nerve to blow him a kiss, tells himself it's purely for the way the crowd goes wild and not to see Louis' eyes darken.

His walks go smoothly, and he doesn't trip, not even once. He's like this ridiculous clumsy deer, but when his feet touch a runway he's as graceful as an Angel need be. By his fourth set he's already been pulled aside twice for quick interviews, and it's so amazing to feel important like that.

The need to run his fingers through Louis' hair intensifies every time he reemerges from the arch; he's fucking itching for it. He's wearing dark skinny trousers with a sharp blazer and his hair is styled into some sort of swirly thing that has Harry nearly dropping to his knees. He feels graced to have ever touched such an eloquent specimen, and maybe he's imagining it, but Louis' smile seems intimately directed at him. Electricity sparks through his abdomen, a feeling usually reserved for when he's hot and ready to be touched.

The show is over too soon, and then Harry's whisked away for one five-minute interview after another before he's even fully dressed. He feels relieved, in a way, but the energy coursing through his veins never ceases even after he tucks each piece back in its rightful place. Mostly he's just going through the motions, the post-show routine almost the same as all the others. He's still holding momentum from the show, entire body light like his bones have become hollow, but really, for the the most part, he just can't fucking wait to get his hands on Louis again.

-

_VS Fashion Show Afterparty, London_

Harry is attuned to him.

The lights dance across Louis' face and his lips are shining with liqueur. Harry already wants him so, so bad, the serene feeling of exhilaration leftover from the show still coursing through his veins, sparking down to his fingertips. His ears ring with adrenaline, and he's changed out of his lingerie and wings, but he still feels light and airy even with the extra layers clinging to his skin. Harry wonders if Louis would take him home, if his previous implication of a _next time_ was a promise in disguise. The first step, of course, would be to talk to him, but Harry's stomach is wringing itself in knots at such a thought. The approach is the hardest part to a pull, he's learned, not that he's actually slept with many people, but casual blowjobs and messy handies and a few fingers now and then are immaculately different. He's not entirely sure what he wants out of Louis, but he's open to all sorts of options so long as he gets to experience the miracle of his body, feel the shallow shiver under his skin again and again. Hell, Louis could put him on a _leash_ and he'd be into it.

Harry frets. The group he'd been politely conversing with doesn't seem to notice his internal struggle; either they're too drunk or too ignorant, but alas, he's torn from all thoughts of self-doubt and deprecation when a pair of delicate fingers tap his shoulder. He spins, eyes widening comically, and it's embarrassing how fast a sudden hot flush blooms up from the dip of his neck when he sees the subject of his debate smiling at him softly. He wonders how his peripherals failed to zero in on Louis moving from his spot by the bar, a lifetime and a half too far away, but it doesn't matter much, not really. He sees it, the flash in Louis' eyes like he's about to say something clever, witty enough to make Harry grin and trip over his own heels.

"You did so - god, you were so great out there," is what he says instead, and he's _gushing_ like a doting mother. Harry feels something warm settle in his abdomen at the praise, and that's either endearment or his body fighting a boner.

"Thank you, you were rather amazing yourself," Harry pauses, because he wants to share more, like how it made him feel, to be up there. He's giving Louis an out, but there's got to be a glint in his eyes because Louis doesn't take it. "It was - _amazing_ , like. I've never felt so good walking a show. And your cheeky arse out there certainly boosted me up."

Louis giggles, the kind of laugh that could only come from someone who created the sun, and Harry is so, so gone.

"Yes, but did I boost you _up_ , Styles?" he finally says once he's sobered, and Harry's smile says he appreciates the joke, but his stormy eyes say _I've been half-hard since I changed out of my first set._

"You wanna know something?" Louis says suddenly, lips still shiny from his drink and swollen from all the biting he's been doing. They're closer than they were, Harry notes, having migrated a good ten feet from the nearest cluster of people. They're in a bit of a secluded corner now, where the lights don't quite reach, and Harry hadn't even noticed their absentminded shuffle but upon realization he's about four seconds from busting a nut. He hums to acknowledge Louis' question, mostly because words are a bit of a long shot at this point.

Louis leans closer, like it's some sort of secret, and a smile plays at his lips as he splays his fingers out on Harry's chest. He can probably feel Harry's heartbeat through the thin material of his shirt.

"I've had my eye on you for ages," he admits quietly. Harry's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Louis' so close his lashes tickle his chin. "I knew you worked for these guys, but I didn't - when I saw you out there, in those tight little lacy things, I wanted to take you apart."

His voice is nothing but hot breath, tone smooth against Harry's skin. Louis Tomlinson has the ability to reduce him to putty, but he's always been a bit too easy. Anyone can see their exchange is anything but casual conversation, and for some reason, he likes that. His body heats in increments, slowly, and then fast, all at once.

"Don't blame you. I wanted to take me apart too," he manages, and that's apparently where Louis' self-control levels itself to absolute zero.

"Let me take you home," he says, eyes deep like the ocean and dark like the London sky. Harry's swimming in lust, he'd even go as far as to say he's drowning in it, like his mouth's full of seawater but he's coughing up sand. It's the third time he's taken note of Louis' glistening mouth and he wants to kiss him, like it's the only thing that'll help him surface. It's not too far-fetched of an idea, considering what Louis' asking, but the kind of kiss he wants to give is the kind that stays behind closed doors and under thin sheets. His will isn't as strong as it should be, though, so he settles for a quick brush to Louis' lips both to satisfy the urge and commend for his response. Even that sorry excuse of a kiss is enough to leave him dizzy with it. He's in way too deep.

It's dangerous for them to leave together so early in the night, because the entire street is littered with wandering paparazzi, and they're both famous enough to be making awkward headlines before dawn even rises. They manage, though, even with hazy minds and clouded judgment. Risks are too high for them to walk to Louis' hotel, so his driver picks them up in the back alley. They make it an entire two minutes in the backseat before Louis swipes the partition closed and then he's crowding Harry's space, and it's all so _much_ so soon he has to brace himself against the tinted window.

Louis misses once in the dark, ends up kissing the tip of Harry's nose and knocking into his forehead, but when he finds his lips, he breathes desire into Harry's mouth. He tastes different this time, less like smoke and more like lazy Sunday mornings spent under soft sheets.

It's too long before they arrive at Louis' hotel, which at a closer glance is also Harry's hotel, which.

"I'm staying at this one too," he comments. Louis doesn't let go of his waist as he thanks the driver and gets out, hand tucked under the hem of his shirt and warming his skin. They walk up the drive towards the revolving door at a leisurely place; Louis doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry, but Harry's never felt more impatient in his life. It's when he thumbs the band of the briefs peeking from his painted-on jeans that inspiration strikes, and upon entering the lift Harry immediately presses the button to his own floor. Louis shoots him a confused glance, but Harry only bites his lip and crowds him slowly into the corner. He catches his own reflection in the mirrored interior, and his pupils are blown to hell, green irises nothing but a thin ring surrounding them. He looks _hungry_.

"Hey," he says softly, gaze never straying from Louis' thin pink lips. He wishes he could be surprised at how much he wants him, how much he needs to get his mouth on him again. He became rather attached to his cock in the short amount of time he's spent with it.

"Hey," Louis whispers, sending Harry's attention barreling out of his musings and back to the priority at hand.

"You liked it, yeah? How I looked during the show?" he asks, watching intently as Louis' pupils dilate.

"Yeah, fuck, you looked so good. I wanted to - wanted to do so much," Louis breathes. Harry grins, cheeky dimple making a not-so-surprising appearance.

"How would you feel," he starts, dragging a finger up the bobbing column of Louis' throat. The lift dings and the doors slide open. Neither of them pay it any mind. "If I told you I have a vast selection of sample pieces in my suitcase."

Harry learns two things about Louis in the next thirty seconds. One is, he's a lot fucking stronger than he looks, judging by the way he practically _lifts_ Harry through the waiting doors with a grip hard enough to bruise. The other is, he's got a hell of a thing for boys in panties.

Harry's got a semi as he scans the corridor for his room, but he's not in the right mindset to be embarrassed and Louis' not doing too much better himself. He's never been set on fire, but he's pretty sure the flames licking up his chest and spattering his cheeks offer a similar sensation. He stops in front of his room, hands shaking with adrenaline as he fumbles for his key. Louis' on him before he can even flip the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob, kissing trails of fire up his neck and breathing desperation into his pores. He sinks his sharp little teeth right into the small junction below his ear, his second favorite spot to be kissed right next to the sensitive insides of his pale thighs. Harry's got loads of shit to do in the time frame of the next three days, countless photoshoots and interviews. He wants bruises.

He doesn't find his own willpower until a good four minutes has passed, and he splays his fingers across Louis' pecs and gives him a gentle shove backwards. He holds up a finger to signify it'll only be moment, throat too dry to speak, and stumbles over to his overflowing suitcase. He made a poor decision of packing his lube and condoms near the bottom, under the ill-thought out illusion that he wouldn't actually be getting anything other than an emergency solo session or four.

Once he finally surfaces the supplies, he immediately switches his priority to attire. He's got slips, thigh-highs, garter belts, the lot, all from fittings, but he settles for a simple pair of purplish lace panties. He's in quite the shoddy situation for playing dress-up, seeing as he's so desperate for a good dicking that he can hardly see straight.

He balls the garment in his palm, flushing as he stands. He's suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, and he's about to ask Louis to turn around, but when he turns to look at him he sees he's done him one better. He's lost his shirt, skin tan and smooth, and he's lying on the bed with one arm thrown across his eyes and the other reaching to palm himself lazily through his jeans. Harry's mouth is dry and warm like the fucking Sahara, and any ounce of grace he's ever had (negative) disappears like that as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and stuffs his legs into the lacy knickers.

He's sure the way he's gone about this is less than sexy, but Louis certainly isn't complaining when he bats his hand out of the way and scrambles to straddle his lap. Harry knows he looks obscene, lips swollen and pupils blown and heavy cock tucked halfheartedly into the waistband of his panties.

"So fucking gorgeous, baby," Louis breathes when he removes his arm from his eyes and stares up at him, like he's in _awe_. Harry positively withers under his intense gaze, blue eyes alight with lust. His palms land on Harry's smooth, pale thighs and his fingers tease the lace lining the crevice where his leg meets his pelvis. He can feel Louis' cock digging into his arse, and he moves his hips in tiny increments, just to hear his soft breathing stall and feel him harden further under the friction. He lets Harry keep the upper hand for about thirty seconds before he's growling and flipping him onto his back, tucking his shirt up until it's bunched ridiculously around his chest. Harry stares up at him, fumbling blindly for the lube and condom that he'd dropped on the sheets.

"Fuck me," he blurts, circling his legs slowly around his waist. He's so hard, needs to touch himself, to _be_ touched. "Please, this time, I-I want you inside, please."

He knows he sounds ridiculous, but he's never felt this sort of burning want before, and it's hellish and euphoric all at the same time.

"Jesus, Harry," Louis breathes, and instead of answering, he says, "turn over."

And Harry does, he's so eager for him it's almost disgusting. It feels different like this, since he has to curl his spindly legs underneath him and push his arse into the air. His knickers are thin and transparent and don't do much to cover his arse, and he shivers as he feels a slight draft tickling his exposed hole. Louis drags a finger up his crack, and Harry's cock jumps because he can't turn his head enough to _see_ him, to watch where his hands wander. If a touch as simple as that is surprising, Harry has no idea what he's in for.

The next time Louis speaks, it's after he's pressed a tender kiss to the back of Harry's thigh.

"Wanna open you up with my tongue. That okay, babe?" Louis asks, and Harry's entirely unsure whether it's the words themselves that has his hips spasming and his fingers twisting into the sheets, or the fact that they land directly above his hole. Either way, he may as well have plainly stated 'go for it', because Louis' tucking a finger under one side of his knickers and pushing them aside to expose him completely.

He clenches emptily around air, already reduced to a writhing mess and Louis' barely touched him. See, he's always been one for the buildup. He firmly believes a good amount of dirty foreplay is the key to a great orgasm, but right now he's confusing beliefs with ideals. He doesn't care, he wants Louis _inside_. Louis doesn't deny him, even of the things he's not saying aloud, because only seconds pass before Harry feels his tongue, hot and wet, dipping into one of the dimples sidling the base of his spine.

He only moves down from there, one swift swipe and he's licking down his crack, both hands holding him open. A bit of precome dribbles down Harry's cock and sinks a wet patch into the fabric of his panties. He's panting, like he's pitching a line and fishing for breath but can only come up with pathetic little hitches in the back of his throat. Louis licks a fat stripe over his rim, thumbs massaging gently into the soft skin of his arse.

He starts messy, just getting him wet, really, tongue moving in a relentless pattern of sloppy circles and solid licks. Harry's working so hard trying not to push back on his face that he forgets to relax when Louis starts prodding, wound up too tight with too much resistance.

"Relax, sweetheart," Louis murmurs, the sweet vibration of his voice against Harry's rim sending his mind into overdrive. He always works himself up like this, thinks about it too much and it makes his body shake. He breathes in deep through his nose, letting his hips sink minutely towards the mattress. It only takes a good two or three pushes before his rim gives around Louis' tongue, flat and wet.

"Yeah, _fuck_ ," he gasps, knees sliding further apart. He's sure he's drooling into the pillow, but the pressure of a hot tongue in his arse leaves no room for such trivial matters.

Louis skips tentative and goes straight in for the chase. He keeps Harry spread wide open as he licks into him, driving his tongue in and out at an unbelievable pace. He thinks he could come on just this, hard and untouched, _knows_ he could. He doesn't get the chance to come close, though, because Louis retracts his tongue and just sort of breathes on his hole. Harry whines at the empty feeling, but Louis' quick to tuck two slick fingers in and he chases the feeling of being full. He's still got his mouth on him, somewhat, sucking and nibbling around his fingers as he pumps loosely.

Once he's up to three, he's just resting his cheek against Harry's arse. Harry peeks through his forearms and sees Louis' hooded eyes watching himself fuck into him languidly, and it makes his hips stutter. He knows he has to cut it short when Louis starts scissoring, because the stretch alone has him so close to coming that he has to tense his muscles and take a bit of a breather. His cock is flushed and curved towards his belly above the band of his knickers, little beads of precome blurting from the slit and gathering on the thin lace.

"Please," Harry gasps. He feels too much at once, can't differentiate between want and need. "Please fuck me, m'fine, please."

"Yeah? You like it to hurt a little?" Louis asks, sliding his fingers out and wiping them on the sheets. Harry's nodding shamelessly into the pillow, but Louis gives his arse a weak smack anyway, as if to prove a point that's already been proven. Harry keens and his mouth falls open on a moan, fingers tangled so tightly in the sheets that he can feel them cramping in protest. He can't take it, needs to relieve himself of some of the pressure, but Louis bats his hand away from his cock before he even manages to graze it.

He hears three sounds next, all in quick succession. The first is the noise of the foil tearing, then a brief hitch of breath as Louis presumably rolls on the condom, then the snick of a bottle. Even after Louis' slicked himself up, he's still teasing, pushing his trousers further down his thighs slowly, pulling Harry's panties out of the way even slower, then knocking the head of his cock against his rim once, twice, letting it slide up the cleft of his arse. Entire seconds of silence pass, save for heavy breathing on both counterparts, before finally, _finally_ Louis pushes into him.

Harry's body seizes, the first few hesitant pushes punching gasps straight out of his chest, empty pleads falling from his lips. Once Louis bottoms out, his initial hesitation dissipates. Gently, he slides two hands under Harry's body and flips him onto his back, and from there he's relentless.

He fucks the same way he talks, quick and brash and all at once. He fucks like the world could end and cut it short at any time, but like he never wants to stop. And it might, end, that is, with how far he's already pushed Harry along with only a handful of shallow thrusts.

It's sort of sweet, in a way, in the sense that every time Harry tilts his neck toward the headboard Louis leans down to kiss it, to nibble his jaw and dip his tongue into his mouth. It's sweet in the sense that every time Harry tightens his legs around Louis' waist, he gives it to him a little harder, just for a second, just long enough to leave him dangling on the edge. It's sweet in the sense that when Louis gets a bit tired, pace stalling and lip raw and worried from the effort, Harry can tell, and with every ounce of strength he's ever had he pushes on Louis' chest until their positions are switched. He straddles his lap and has enough mind to finally pull his wrinkled shirt over his head. With both hands curled in tight fists at his side, he heaves himself up onto his haunches and relieves himself of the momentary empty feeling in his gut, lowering himself down to the hilt.

"Fuck," Louis breathes, his voice rough like the syllable was punched from him. His hands come up to rest on Harry's hips, wandering over the lace where Harry's cock peeks out and thumbing under the band.

"M'so close," Harry whimpers. His thighs burn less than a minute in, but then again his entire body is already wilted with exhaustion. He loves the control, usually, the ability to find his own angle, but right now it's the last thing on his mind. He's focusing on the raw feeling of being full, stretched wide on Louis' cock, though he does nudge his prostate on a few lucky thrusts, and it sends him reeling. The mattress is expensive, so it doesn't squeak, but he's still sure everyone on this floor can hear them.

Harry comes first, which surprises neither of them, and it's earth-shattering. His pace turns manic in the few seconds just before it hits him, alternating between shallow, fast bounces so hard he can hear the smack of his arse against Louis' hips, and thrusts so slow and deep they can almost qualify as grinds, Louis' cock buried in him as Harry rubs repeatedly over his spot like he just can't help it. It leaves him breathless; it's the best sex he's ever had and then some.

He collapses onto Louis as soon as he's done, breathing hotly in the junction between his neck and shoulder. Louis takes hold of his hips and thrusts upward once, twice, before he's following suit and spilling into the condom with a groan muted against Harry's askew hair.

Harry's not sure who starts laughing first, because everything's still a little bit fuzzy around the edges, but soon they're both nothing but a giggling mess of sweat and come. By the time it's died down, Louis has pulled Harry off, both of them wincing at the sensitivity, and tied off the condom, tossing it in the bin near the nightstand. It's a good night, decidedly, as far as Harry can tell when Louis wipes him down with a complimentary package of tissues and cuddles him into his chest. Harry whispers something that sounds like an endearment, and both of them are out like a light within seconds.

Harry's coasting blindly, really, that's all he's ever been about, but this whole live-in-the-moment mindset seems to stall when he's still so high on the past and the future. He's always been indecisive, but he's also always gotten attached much too quickly, and it seems to have lead him in the right direction so far. He's always wanted to be more than a helpless soul treading through existence, but now, all he can think is, existing with Louis might be something he can live with.

\-----------

**Author's Note:**

> thank you sooooo much for reading, i hope you enjoyed. i wanna thank soph and kayla for beta'ing and holding my hand when things got rough. let me know what you thought! i really appreciate comments, kudos, etc. 
> 
> again hope you enjoyed, until next time!
> 
> update: can you believe this madness???? harry prancing around in wings the day after this gets posted and now all these huge artists popping out fanart of it and i know its not for me but it feels so good?? gosh darn i just wanted to say something okayh
> 
>  
> 
> tumblr - roundherhead  
> twitter - nosebleedharry


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